Guilty Not Guilty

  With my thanks to

  Miles Bennett, barrister

  Julia Needham, barrister

  William Barlow, BH Steward

  Jo Dickinson, my editor

  and, as always, to Debbie

  Foreword

  In England and Wales, lawyers fall into two categories, barristers and solicitors, dependent on their course of qualification. Barristers are regulated by the Bar Council and solicitors by the Law Society. Scotland and Northern Ireland have their own separate judicial systems.

  A barrister specializing in criminal law acts as an advocate in court, arguing cases in front of juries in the Crown Court or in front of senior judges in the Court of Appeal, the High Court of Justice, and the Supreme Court of the United Kingdom, whereas a solicitor does everything else that requires compliance with the law, such as wills, contracts, divorce petitions, transfers of property etc. In addition, in criminal cases, solicitors generally prepare the ‘brief’, the documentation in the case. A barrister may act as either the prosecution or defence counsel, but not as both in the same trial!

  In the English criminal justice system, the accused will generally appoint a solicitor to advise them (or have one appointed for them). If the case goes to trial in the Crown Court, the solicitor will instruct a barrister to act as the advocate in the proceedings. Throughout the case, the solicitor and the barrister work closely together to plan strategy. There is no distinction in seniority due to their separate roles.

  A Queen’s Counsel, QC, is a senior member of the legal profession, usually, but not always, a barrister, and the term is an honorary title that conveys esteem, experience and recognition within the ranks of lawyers. Persons appointed QC will have made a substantial contribution to the administration and delivery of the law.

  Unlike in the United States, where it effectively means ‘lawyer’, the term ‘attorney’ in the UK is reserved for someone who is appointed to act specifically on someone else’s behalf, often through a power of attorney document. Such an attorney may be a lawyer but is often a non-legally-qualified family member.

  Judges in England and Wales are selected by the politically-independent Judicial Appointments Commission. They are chosen solely on merit from the ranks of senior lawyers, mostly barristers. Judges are never elected, nor appointed by the holder of a political office.

  In this book, lawyers, both barristers and solicitors are referred to using these terms, and the court proceedings are described in accordance with generally accepted practice in England and Wales.

  PART ONE

  October

  1

  It is said that everyone over a certain age can remember what they were doing when they heard that President Kennedy had been assassinated, or that Princess Diana had been killed in a Paris car crash, but I, for one, could recall all too clearly where I was standing when a policeman told me that my wife had been murdered.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Dowdeswell, Thames Valley Police,’ announced the plain-clothed officer, holding out his police warrant card. I glanced down at it. ‘This is PC Roberts, Warwickshire Constabulary.’ He indicated towards a uniformed officer by his side. ‘Are you The Honourable William Gordon-Russell?’

  I was, although I never used that name.

  ‘Bill Russell,’ I said, nodding. ‘That’s me.’

  The detective seemed slightly confused but quickly recovered.

  ‘From Banbury in Oxfordshire?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Well, I live just outside Banbury.’

  ‘The Old Forge in Hanwell?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said again, nervously. ‘That’s right. Now what’s this all about?’

  ‘Bit of bad news, sir, I’m afraid,’ he said.

  Not more. I’d had nothing but bad news for weeks.

  ‘What is it now?’ I asked with a sigh, fearing the worst.

  That’s when he told me. Brusquely and without any compassion.

  ‘Murdered?’ I said, my voice somewhat squeaky from the sudden constriction I could feel in my throat. I also felt weak at the knees.

  ‘I’m afraid so, sir,’ the policeman said.

  ‘How?’ I asked. ‘And where?’

  ‘All in good time,’ the policeman said. ‘Now, sir, we would like you to come with us.’

  It all sounded rather official.

  ‘Where to?’ I asked.

  ‘The station,’ he replied, and I didn’t think he meant the railway station.

  ‘I’d rather go and see my wife,’ I said.

  ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible at this time. You need to come with us.’

  There was something about the policeman’s tone I didn’t like.

  ‘Am I being arrested?’ I asked.

  ‘No, sir. We just need to ask you some questions.’ He said it in a manner that made me think that I might very well be arrested if I didn’t play ball.

  ‘But I have duties to fulfil here,’ I said. ‘I can’t just leave.’

  That seemed to flummox him somewhat.

  ‘What duties?’

  ‘I’m a steward.’

  ‘A steward?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I am one of the four stewards at the race meeting this afternoon. We are responsible for ensuring the Rules of Racing are observed.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, suddenly nodding in understanding. Perhaps he’d thought I would be serving drinks or keeping the crowd in order.

  The three of us were standing alone in the Stewards’ Room, which was attached to the weighing room at Warwick Racecourse. It was just after one-thirty in the afternoon. The first race was due off at two.

  ‘Someone else will have to take over,’ stated the detective unequivocally.

  Indeed they would. Even if I hadn’t had to go with the policemen, I was no longer in a fit state to adjudicate on a children’s game of tiddlywinks, let alone six competitive horse races.

  I suddenly felt very unwell.

  I sat down heavily on one of the chairs and leaned my head down on the table.

  ‘Are you all right, sir?’ asked the detective.

  ‘No,’ I said, without looking up.

  Murdered!

  ‘Here,’ said the policeman, holding out a glass of water. ‘Drink this. My colleague has gone to fetch medical assistance.’

  I drank the water.

  ‘I don’t need medical assistance,’ I said. ‘It’s just the shock, that’s all.’

  How could Amelia be murdered? Suicide I could have understood. We had lived on that knife-edge for the past three years. But murder? Surely not. Who would have wanted to murder the kindest and gentlest person on this earth?

  ‘Her brother,’ I said, glancing up at the detective. ‘Now that’s who you ought to question.’

  ‘That’s funny,’ he replied without smiling. ‘That’s exactly what he said about you.’

  ‘So you’ve spoken to him?’

  He didn’t answer and I sensed he was berating himself for revealing anything at all.

  One of the racecourse doctors arrived carrying his regulation bright-red medical kit slung over his shoulder. Dr Jack Westcott. I knew him well. He was a long-time friend. His regular job was as my GP but his role at the races was to be on hand to tend to any fallen jockeys. An unwell steward was clearly also within his remit, especially one who was his regular patient.

  ‘Hi, Bill,’ he said, crouching down to my level. ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘I feel a little faint, Jack, that’s all. I’ve just had some bad news.’

  ‘Not Amelia, I hope,’ he said.

  He was only too well aware of how badly our lives had been in turmoil. Over the previous three years, Jack had acted not only as our family doctor, but also as our confidant and unofficial therapist.

>   I nodded. ‘She’s been found . . .’

  I stopped. I couldn’t bring myself to say it.

  ‘Dead,’ said the detective, over my head.

  ‘My God, Bill. That’s awful.’

  Jack laid a comforting arm across my shoulder.

  ‘Doctor, can you just hurry up and check him over?’ the detective said impatiently. ‘Mr Gordon-Russell needs to come with me.’

  ‘For God’s sake, man,’ the doctor replied, looking up at him. ‘Have some sympathy. The man’s just heard his wife has killed herself.’

  ‘She didn’t kill herself,’ Detective Sergeant Dowdeswell said bluntly. ‘She was strangled.’

  If Jack was shocked, he didn’t show it.

  ‘There must be some mistake.’

  ‘There’s no mistake,’ replied the detective. ‘Mrs Gordon-Russell was found on her kitchen floor with a ligature still round her neck.’

  I wondered if the policeman had again said more than he should. It was certainly more than I wanted to hear. I felt ill again.

  ‘But you surely can’t suspect Mr Russell,’ said the doctor.

  ‘Mr Gordon-Russell,’ – the detective placed the emphasis on the Gordon – ‘needs to come with me in order to assist us with our inquiries.’

  ‘And if he won’t?’

  ‘Then he will be arrested for obstructing a constable in the execution of his duty.’

  At least it wasn’t for murder.

  I looked forlornly at the doctor and he stared back at me.

  ‘I didn’t kill her,’ I mouthed at him.

  He wrinkled his forehead with incredulity and shook his head as if the thought had never crossed his mind.

  It had mine.

  I had often wondered if I could have done more to alleviate Amelia’s mental anguish. Had I done enough? Was her death now a further manifestation of her psychiatric problems? Or was it something entirely different and infinitely more sinister?

  Murder?

  I still couldn’t quite believe it.

  ‘I’m not at all sure that Mr Russell is well enough to go with you,’ Jack declared, standing up. ‘I consider that he needs to go to hospital for a full medical check-up.’

  To say that DS Dowdeswell was unhappy with this announcement was an understatement – he was apoplectic.

  ‘He will be seen by a doctor at the police station,’ he said decisively.

  ‘No!’ Jack replied loudly with even greater determination. ‘Mr Russell should go to hospital now. And I trust you won’t be arresting me for obstructing a constable in the execution of his duty.’

  I knew what he was doing. He was trying to protect his friend. But it was like attempting to hold back the tide – hopeless and impossible.

  ‘It’s all right, Jack,’ I said to him. ‘I’m feeling a bit better now. I’ll go with the police. I have nothing to hide.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ he asked, looking straight at me. ‘I can still insist that you go to hospital.’

  ‘No, Jack. I’m fine. It’s best if I go with them now. They won’t give up.’

  He smiled. ‘I’ll send you a cake with a file in it.’

  I glared at him. ‘I didn’t do it.’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  But I could see a touch of doubt creeping into his eyes.

  ‘Please tell George Longcross that I can’t act as a steward today after all.’

  ‘He won’t like it.’

  ‘Tough,’ I said. ‘It’s not as if I have any choice.’

  George Longcross was the designated chairman of the stewards for this day’s racing, and he was a stickler for everything to be done exactly by the book. He abhorred absence or lateness and was determined that nothing should go amiss on his watch.

  As if on cue, George Longcross walked into the Stewards’ Room, no doubt having enjoyed a lavish luncheon courtesy of the directors of the racecourse. Not that I hadn’t been invited. But I had learned from experience that a plate of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding in the middle of the day, together with all the trimmings and a dessert, was no good for my waistline, and also had a tendency to send me to sleep at the very time when I needed to be alert and on my mettle.

  George took a quick look around the room, and then settled his stare on the uniformed policeman.

  ‘What is going on here?’ he asked in his usual booming authoritarian voice.

  There was a brief pause before the detective sergeant answered.

  ‘Mr Gordon-Russell has had some bad news,’ he said.

  The chairman of the stewards transferred his gaze to the detective in his open-fronted leather bomber jacket over a black T-shirt, blue jeans and trainers. George Longcross, meanwhile, was, as always, attired in a dark pin-stripe suit, highly polished brogues, white shirt and silk tie, with a matching handkerchief in his breast pocket. I couldn’t imagine that he even possessed a black T-shirt or a pair of jeans, and certainly not a leather bomber jacket.

  ‘And who are you?’ he asked in an accusing tone.

  ‘DS Dowdeswell, Thames Valley Police.’ The detective again flashed his warrant card. ‘Mr Gordon-Russell needs to leave.’

  ‘But I require him here,’ George said. ‘He’s a steward.’

  ‘Find somebody else,’ said the detective decisively. ‘He’s coming with us, and right now.’

  It seemed to take the wind out of George’s sails.

  ‘Oh,’ he said. He looked at me. ‘It’s all very inconvenient. Very inconvenient indeed.’

  I felt like telling him that it was not as inconvenient as one’s wife having been found murdered, but I said nothing. I just turned away and accompanied the policemen out of the door.

  I may not have been arrested but it certainly felt as if I had, especially if the reaction to my departure was anything to go by.

  The weighing room was filling up as the time for the first race approached, with trainers and officials milling around completing their duties, and jockeys weighing out.

  However, as I was being escorted through the throng by the police, the general hubbub died away to silence and I could almost feel the stares of those watching.

  2

  ‘You are being interviewed under caution,’ said the detective sergeant formally. ‘You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

  We were sitting in a stark windowless interview room at Banbury Police Station. Alongside the sergeant was another plain-clothed policeman who was introduced as Detective Constable Parkinson.

  ‘So I am under arrest?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said the DS with a forced smile. ‘This is simply an opportunity for us to ask you some questions concerning the death of your wife. I have cautioned you solely to ensure that whatever you say can be used in future court proceedings if there are any. Hence, we are recording this interview, but you are free to leave whenever you like.’

  ‘Should I have a solicitor here?’ I asked.

  ‘Is there any reason why you need one?’

  ‘No,’ I said. But I wasn’t sure if it might not be a good idea anyway.

  The detective nodded as if pleased. ‘For the recording, state your full name.’

  ‘Bill Russell.’

  ‘Your full name, please.’

  ‘The Honourable William Herbert Millgate Gordon-Russell,’ I said. ‘The last two are hyphenated.’

  ‘Quite a mouthful.’

  I ignored him but he was right. That’s partly why I called myself just plain Bill Russell.

  ‘How do you get to be an Honourable?’ the DS asked.

  ‘My father is an earl.’

  The ninth Earl of Wrexham, to be precise.

  ‘So you’ll be an earl when he dies?’

  ‘No chance,’ I said. ‘I have two older brothers. And they both have two sons apiece. Far too many members of the family would have to die first for me to inherit the title.’
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  ‘But it could happen.’

  ‘Only in the movies,’ I replied.

  Specifically in Kind Hearts and Coronets.

  When I’d been aged about twelve I’d obsessed over that film, watching Alec Guinness in black-and-white on an old video recorder, daydreaming for hours about cunning ways I could emulate him and elevate myself up the family pecking order. Third-son syndrome, I called it. Neither the heir, nor the spare. Hence the chances of inheriting anything were slim, let alone the title and the family seat – not that I’d ever been very keen on the draughty thirteenth-century castle in the Welsh Borders where I’d been raised.

  Fortunately, my childhood obsession with bumping off my brothers in order to become the tenth earl hadn’t progressed beyond fantasy, not least because I had adored my siblings. I still did, albeit from a safe distance.

  The detective sergeant changed tactic. ‘You don’t seem very distressed by the news of your wife’s death.’

  ‘I am devastated,’ I said. ‘My wife and I were very close.’

  ‘That isn’t how it appears to me.’

  ‘But you can’t see how I’m feeling on the inside,’ I replied.

  I had been taught as a child not to display my emotions. ‘Big boys don’t cry’ had been a mantra for my grandfather, the eighth earl, with whom I had spent much of my early years.

  I was devastated. I hurt, badly, and part of me wanted to scream and shout, but the ‘Captain Sensible’ within simply asked what good it would do, so I didn’t.

  And it was not as if I hadn’t prepared myself for this moment.

  For the previous three years, I had half-expected on a daily basis to hear that Amelia was dead. She had seriously tried to kill herself twice and openly discussed the likelihood of taking her own life almost every week.

  Over time, I had discovered that there was a limit on how much I could accompany and chaperone her. If someone was determined to kill themselves, then it was nearly impossible to stop them. To keep Amelia safe for every single moment of every day was unachievable short of locking her up in a mental hospital – something that had happened more than once in the recent past.

  ‘When did you last see your wife?’